Evergreen by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 21

Most cops get sent to small towns for one of two reasons: after they’ve paid their dues in the city, or they have, for some reason become more trouble than their worth and someone decided they should be out of the way. Chuck, however, had emerged right out of training and by some act of divine intervention, was sentenced to Evergreen, a quiet speck just northeast of the mountains bordering Baxter State Park. Being a cop wasn’t something that necessarily ran in his blood, but he wanted to help people and the idea of going into any branch of the medical profession terrified him. He absolutely did not want that kind of responsibility. But the job came with a catch. He had to carry a gun. It wasn’t that he was afraid of guns. He had seen the results of their destructive power while studying law enforcement and quickly developed a respect for any weapon that could, so instantaneously, end one’s life and through the experience of learning its use, Chuck also realized that some things in life don’t come with an undo button.

He had grown up in Portland and found the people of Evergreen very different from those in the city. As opposed to the busyness of Portland, life in Evergreen wasn’t so much slow, but calm, even serene and although he didn’t think his new job in Evergreen wouldn’t be a challenge, it was simply a challenge he was not expecting. He also knew that every town, every city, has its own characteristic set of problems. But, Evergreen seemed to be devoid of the typical issues of civilization. He felt it when he first drove into town. It was as if he crossed through a barrier, separating the world of ‘an eye for an eye’ from one seemingly empty of the human propensity for violence and self-centeredness. Over a short span of time, however, Chuck would learn that Evergreen was anything but a utopia and that even small towns have their share of worldly problems.

His fascination with the Redfield house was immediate. Almost from the beginning, he expressed his curiosity about it and when Chuck found Katie and Bobby exploring the property; he was instantly struck by a feeling he was unable to define. It was as though someone had quietly walked up behind him. He had begun to inquire about it but was steered away with brief, meaningless responses, mostly from Christine. He knew there was something she was holding back and was uncomfortable about being kept in the dark. It was this that prompted him to do his own research and scouring the Internet, he found the same article Bobby had discovered. He had also made a visit to the town clerk and found the same documents that Tom would discuss with Christine. But he had run up against the same roadblock. The trail of information seemed to go only so far, but unlike Christine, Chuck was fresh out of training and knew one or two people who might be able to help.

Eventually, he discovered that the original investigative documents had somehow been lost. But, not before they had been copied to microfilm. However, this did not make obtaining them any easier and getting them required an act of the courts. But, while he was training to become a cop, Chuck had made a few friends. One of them worked for the Maine state Department of Justice.

The question was, would they be willing to circumvent the law for the sake of a favor? Chuck thought it was unlikely that anyone would risk their career for the curiosity of one person, Deputy or not. But if there was one thing Chuck was good at, it was making an impression, and he would use that part of his persona to his advantage.

As far as the rest of the world was concerned, Chuck’s friend at the Justice Department was nameless and after contacting them by private email, asked if they could obtain copies of the records, and send them to him with Chuck’s name and address in the return address field as well. There would be no chance of the records returning to Augusta and of the identity of the person sending them would remain unknown. So, in the process of gaining this information, Chuck’s approach would be less like police work and more like espionage, covert and perhaps somewhat sinister.

Within the next two weeks, a package arrived. Chuck received no response from his contact in Augusta. There was no letter. Chuck realized that his friend’s career could be on the line, as there were legal ramifications involved in sending confidential information without authorization. But without the sender’s name, there was no paper trail and Chuck considered the matter closed as soon as he opened the envelope. Relieving it of its contents, he unfolded several sheets of paper, spreading them out on his kitchen table. The sheriff’s report, crime scene photos and the autopsy results for both Arthur and Cecilia. It was all there, almost. What was missing was something that Chuck’s logical mind was incapable of conceiving. The one thing that would make sense of everything was something that made no sense at all and unbeknownst to Chuck, the person who held that one final piece of the puzzle was Christine, and she was completely unaware of the information in his possession.

Chuck examined every detail of every image, every word of every page. The initial report, filed by the then sheriff of Evergreen, Bill Thompson, was dated August 26, 1961. Neither Cecelia nor Arthur had been seen in almost a week. They were generally ignored by most of the town, due to Cecelia’s strong propensity for her conceited view of people. In short, she was despised by nearly everyone. Her husband, Arthur, with his penchant for drunkenness, was considered a public eyesore. But when their absence was noticed, the townspeople brought it to the attention of the sheriff. Not that they were concerned. People had simply become curious.

According to the report, Sheriff Thompson arrived at the house at roughly 4 o’clock in the afternoon. His persistent knocking was met with silence. He walked back down to the Redfield’s car and placing a hand on the hood, noticed immediately that it was cold. He made his way around the house. But, the windows were too high for him to get a clear look. Between the condition of the car and the silence of the house, the Sheriff felt that he had what he needed to establish probable cause. He knew that something was very wrong and even though he lacked the proper documents to lawfully enter the house, his concern for their safety -- given the circumstances -- allowed him to investigate further.

Circling back to the front of the house, he again stepped up to the door. Again, he knocked several times. Again, he was answered by silence. Reaching down to his holster, he unsnapped the leather strap that held his forty-five in place. The doorknob turned easily and as he stepped inside, placed his open hand just above his sidearm.

“Hello!” he yelled. “Anyone home?!” His voice was instantly absorbed by the walls and furniture, leaving the resulting silence running around in his head like a rabid animal, forever trapped in a cage, not much larger than itself. The house was breathtakingly grandiose. But before taking another step, the Sheriff reached over, grabbed a chair and set it to hold the door open. If a threat suddenly appeared, he wanted a means of escape without having to struggle with the doorknob.

He continued his quiet search the house. Occasionally, his step would let loose a pop from the floor beneath him, as its wooden planks shifted with his weight and within the houses silent space, its creaks and groans following his every step rang loudly, rising up to his startled mind like ghosts bursting from the grave. “Hello!” he repeated. “Anyone home?! It’s the Sheriff!” He refrained from going into any of its rooms, thinking that if there was a problem, it would be obvious. But beneath the surface, the mere idea of walking through the houses deafening Victorian silence terrified him. He’d seen its exterior many times and even when invited, found a way to excuse himself from visiting. Secretly, the house frightened him, and he was unable to explain why.

Making his way through the first floor, Sheriff Thompson slowly climbed the main staircase. The banister was held in place at both ends by hand-carved Roman columns and as he moved up the stairs; the sheriff looked up toward the second floor. Under the circumstances, he had quickly come to the expectation that something terrible was about to befall him and as maddening as he found the silence; he had successfully moved his senses into a state of hyper-alertness. Every detail, every sound flooded his mind, falling victim to instantaneous analysis as he suddenly perceived himself, not moving through space but stationary, as space flowed around him. The second floor of the house, although fully furnished, reflected the same emptiness. The sheriff called out to the couple again. But again, there was no response. His anxiety mounted as he reached the third floor. It was mostly attic space and lacked the typical trapdoor common in many houses.

“Jesus Christ,” he said to himself. “What the fuck am I my doing here?”

He failed to understand why an older couple needed so much space. After all, time had been taking its toll on both of them, but it wasn’t until he got to the back of the third floor that he discovered why they had been so silent. Both Arthur and Cecelia lay dead - their bodies clinging to the floor by a heavy layer of dried blood and the fluids of decay.

It had been quite some time since the sheriff had seen a corpse. But, never had he seen such a site as this. He turned and ran toward the stairs as his most recent meal struggled to make an exit. Halfway down the stairs, his feet became tangled in his feverish pace, and he tumbled down to the second floor, striking the back of his head on the wall. He was left stunned, but not unconscious and as he crawled away from the stairs, his stomach chose that moment to discard its contents. But in spite of his now aching stomach, the sheriff got to his feet. Weaving down the stairs, he made his way back to the first floor. In his panicked state, the house had become a maze as his mind began spinning and his stomach continued churning.

With the front door still held open, the sheriff launched himself out to the porch and down the stairs. He stumbled over to the Redfield’s car and bending down, put his hands flat against one of its side panels and put all his energy into resisting the repeated urge to vomit. His face flushed a deep red as he choked and coughed while trying to catch his breath. It took a few minutes but having recovered he stumbled to his car, reached through the window and retrieved the microphone for his radio. Even fifty years later, in the age of cellular technology, a police dispatcher was essential. No town, no matter how small, could function without one.

Still trying to catch his breath, the sheriff keyed the microphone and spoke as clearly as he could. “Dispatch, do you copy?” he said. “Dispatch, do you copy?”

He spent a few moments listening as the signal hissed in a brief dormancy.

“Sheriff, this is dispatch. Over.”

The voice on the other end was female and easy to understand.

“Listen to me,” he began. “Get the doc up to the Redfield place and get the nearest state police barracks on the horn.”

He paused as he turned back to the open door. Being able to breathe again, he brought the microphone back up as the dispatcher asked for clarification. “Look, just do it,” he ordered.

He closed his eyes, searching for the right words. “The Redfield’s are dead.”

The radio emitted a lengthy pause as the sheriff listened intently for a response.

“Dispatch?”

Again, all was quiet.

“Emily, dammit, say something!”

The nerve-wracking silence had finally broken as the dispatcher acknowledged the sheriff’s orders. “Yes Sheriff,” she said. “Right away.” He opened the driver’s door and sat with his legs outside the car and within the space of ten minutes, the town’s doctor arrived. The tires of his car crackled against the driveways loose stone and dirt. Stepping out of his car, the doctor walked over to the Sheriff to inquire about the situation.

“You don’t look so good,” he said.

He threw a lit cigarette to the ground and with the heel of his shoe, crushed it into the soft earth. The sheriff gave him a bewildered look.

“A doctor who smokes?”

The doctor responded very matter-of-factly. “We’re all gonna fuckin’ die anyway, right?” With his medical bag in hand, he started towards the steps, but pausing just before ascending them turned back to the Sheriff.

“You coming?”

The sheriff wasn’t exactly thrilled about going back into the house. But, not only was it part of the job, he would also have to show the doctor where the bodies were.

By the time they arrived at the third floor, both men were very much out of breath.

“Jesus Christ,” the doctor said. “They couldn’t die on the first floor, could they?”

The sheriff pointed the way toward the back of the third floor.

“Right back there,” he said. “You, uh...mind if I stay here?”

The doctor had already started toward where the Redfield’s bodies lay, but stopped momentarily and looking back at the sheriff replied, “Suit yourself.” The doctor was not particularly shocked by what he saw. What did shock him was that it happened in Evergreen. He got down on one knee and in the rapidly fading light, streaming in through the room’s only window, made a brief examination of the bodies. He turned his head back toward the sheriff.

“Hey!” he yelled.

The sheriff stepped up to the side of the doorway. “Yeah, doc?” he replied.

The sun was quickly receding, forcing the doctor to retrieve a penlight from his bag. He clicked it on with his thumb and began scanning the immediate area. “Yep,” he answered. “They’re dead alright.” The sheriff turned away with a disgusted expression, having the feeling that he was being taunted. The doctor stood and pulling the chain connected to a ceiling light discovered that the power was out.

“Shit,” he said quietly. “We’re gonna have to come back in the morning.”

He grabbed his bag and stepped out of the room. “In the morning?” the sheriff asked in disbelief. “Oh, no...no. Now, I have to treat this as a crime scene. This can’t wait ‘til morning?!”

The Dr.’s response was anything but energetic as he lit another cigarette.

“Look,” he replied. “We’re running out of daylight, there’s no power, and we're not equipped to handle this ourselves. The way I see it, we don’t have a choice, and they’re not going anywhere.”

He continued down the stairs to the second floor, with the sheriff following behind.

“So, I’m gonna have to camp out in front of this place all night!?” he asked.

The doctor didn’t so much as pause in his step, nor did he turn to face him.

“Looks that way,” he answered.

As they walked toward the staircase leading to the first floor, the sheriff caught up to him in order to more strenuously voice his concerns.

“Look,” he said. “I can’t stand this fuckin’ place. I didn’t like this place when they were alive and I sure as hell don’t like it now.”

The doctor shook his head at the idea that a grown man and a seasoned law enforcement officer could be bothered by a house.

“For fuck’s sake Bill,” he began. “It’s a god-damn house and I don’t see the boogie man walking around in there! Now, someone’s gotta stay out here and you’re the sheriff. So, I suggest you give your deputy a call and do this in shifts.”

The sheriff knew he was right. The chain of evidence had to be maintained and the people who handled these matters were, at least, a two-hour drive away.

The deputy had been easy to reach and arrived within twenty minutes of being called. The sheriff briefed him as soon as he got there as the deputy stood stunned with a wide-eyed expression.

“Holy shit!” he said.

“Yeah,” the sheriff began. “So, someone’s gonna have to stay here as a matter of procedure.”

The deputy’s reaction was nothing short of horrified. “You want me to stay out here? For the night?” The sheriff realized that, between the two of them, the night could be easily divided into two shifts. So, he made a compromise.

“Alright,” he began. “We’ll do this in shifts. Five hours each, okay? You take the first watch and I’ll relieve you in five hours, alright?”

The deputy didn’t have to agree with him. He simply had no choice. There were many duties involved in his job and on that night, one of those duties would be to stand watch over two dead bodies, stuck to the floor in a Victorian house in the middle of the woods.

Naturally, the sheriff didn’t return until first light. Since the moment he was briefed the night before, the deputy strongly suspected he would be the one to spend the night outside the Redfield house. But as angry as he was, he was glad to see the sheriff walking towards him with two tall cups of coffee. Having known what lay within the houses’ cold cloak of darkness, the deputy found the silent solitude of the night maddening as he tried to stay awake while shivering in the front seat of the police car.

“Anything to report?” the sheriff asked. “Just a lot of nothing,” the deputy answered. The sheriff turned to face the house's façade. “You been in there?” he asked.

As the deputy took his first sip of coffee, he found entering the house terrifying, day or night and knowing the Redfield’s bodies were decomposing on the third floor, his fear had become especially obvious. “I’m not going in there,” he replied. “I’m fine right here.” The sheriff stood, staring up into a third-floor window. His mind raced with questions and theories. An entire career of police work seemed of little use for such an act of brutality. So far, there were no answers. The sheriff was, in fact, unable to get a clear view of the bodies, due to the evenings fading light. But, help was on the way and by late morning, the coroner had arrived with a detective, followed by a hearse. After an hour’s long assessment and dozens of photographs, both bodies were peeled off the floor. Rigor had come and gone, but during the initial examination, something bizarre was noted. While Arthur Redfield appeared to have died of blood loss, Cecelia’s body demonstrated no injuries of any kind. It did, however, seem that her body was not simply decomposing, but displaying a degree of desiccation, as though mummified.

Naturally, the coroner pronounced them both dead. It seemed like a ridiculous idea, given the condition of their bodies, but it had to be official. Later, the autopsy report on Arthur would list his cause of death as occurring from blood loss, due to a penetrating wound to the chest. However, Cecelia’s autopsy concluded an unknown cause of death. It noted, in particular, the condition of her remains as being inconsistent with the environment in which they were found. Desiccation was normally produced in hot, arid places. The warm humid air of the houses third-floor would have facilitated a more rapid rate of decomposition. Thus, the circumstances of Cecelia’s death would forever remain a mystery and as far as the police were concerned, the entire matter was deemed a murder-suicide. It was the only sane conclusion that could be reached, given the questionable results of her autopsy and after every speck of available information had been examined, the case was closed.